by Beverly Adam
Undeterred, she took the drinking goblet and placed it beneath his numbing lips. Batting her long lashes at him, she did her best to be as coquettish as any young lady flirting behind a fan at her first assembly ball. She’d been waiting for this opportunity, now was the moment to seize it.
“Lord O’Brien will be dreadfully disappointed if you didn’t drink another dram.” She pouted prettily. “Why ’twas he who sent it up with his best wishes for your improved health, Your Grace.”
James gave a lopsided, half-drunken smile at her. She looked so pretty sitting beside him, coaxing him. Demme if the chit didn’t have pretty green eyes, too. Such a tiny waist she had. He hadn’t noticed before. Why the vixen was almost winsome in both her attire and manner. Aye, she was most becoming this morn.
“That s-settles it!” he said in a half-drunken slur. “It would be intolerably ill-mannered of me if I were to insult my host’s offering of goodwill.” He took the goblet and drank smoothly down the rest.
The moment had arrived for action. She stealthily removed the cursed coin from her apron. She leaned closer to him, holding her breath as she daringly hid the magic coin amongst his bedclothes.
“There,” she said breathlessly, her heart pounding in her ears from the near danger and deception. “I best take my leave and go tell Father how much—”
She chanced a glance at him and forgot the rest of her words of farewell.
He was looking into her eyes through a drunken fog, silently caressing her, without touching. He ran his eyes over her long dark hair, the soft curves of her oval face, down the line of her smooth, pink cheeks to her softly parted lips. An intoxication only a woman could give him pricking at his baser appetites. His head spun.
She held her breath and stared up into his handsome eyes. In one spectacularly impulsive moment, she wanted him to cover her mouth with his, to discover that heady feeling of being passionately kissed.
As if reading her thoughts, he lifted his hand up and removed the hairpins, which held back her hair. With one gentle tug, the long strands fell down about her shoulders. Her head felt suddenly lighter.
Encouraged by her silence, he combed his fingers through the glossy tresses. He placed his other hand firmly around her waist, pulling her up against his body. She took in a breath, surprised by the bold gesture.
“You are invitingly delectable,” he whispered in her ear, his breath smelling strongly of whiskey.
He began to gently nibble on her earlobe, lowering his head, placing a series of small kisses along the column of her exposed neck. He murmured between kisses, “Delicious, soft and warm . . . absolutely enticing.”
She whispered back, “Thank-you,” briefly remembering the first time he’d placed his hands around her, how her body had quickened at the feel of his body brushing up against hers when she helped him out of the bog.
Gathering her hair, he gently moved it to one side as he continued his exploration along the nape of her neck. When he reached her shoulders, he gently tugged down the muslin covering, causing her to shiver at his touch. He bent his head and began kissing her again . . .
She delighted at the feel of his lips against her skin, each kiss causing her pulse to quicken and her heart to pound in anticipation. Finally, wanting his lips on her own, she took his head into her hands and forced his bleary eyes to look into her own.
She commanded him, “Kiss me.”
Obediently, he complied, his mouth descending on hers, his tongue gently coaxing open her mouth. He tasted of a mixture of tobacco and whiskey. His mouth savored her lower and upper lips as he sucked on them, awakening long forgotten feelings she’d tried to forget when she vowed to become an independent spinster.
She felt his hand reach inside her bodice and fondle her breast. In a gentle circular motion, the soft pad of his thumb applied pressure, rubbing her nipple. Involuntarily, she let out a soft moan of pleasure.
The sound of the outer chamber door clicking open, however, pushed away all thoughts of any further kisses or heated embraces. Startled, she backed out of his arms.
Not bothering to knock, Wise Sarah strolled in dressed in her best Sunday frock, a blue homespun gown lined with fine Irish lace. She wore a winsome smile and turned to speak to her patient, but the words she’d prepared died on her lips.
Head sunk to one side, the Earl of Drennan lay openmouthed like a dead fish in deep slumber. A drunken snore buzzed the air about him.
“Oh!” she muttered, surprised, spun on her heels, and walked out, slamming the door shut behind.
And that was a grand shame. If she’d but lingered a moment longer, she’d have seen a sight worthy of remembrance. Her friend, the renowned Spinster of Brightwood Manor, that waspish maid of virtue, slid off the bed and onto the floor in a breathless heap.
Eyes closed, the lady of the house sent up a prayer of thanksgiving. “Praise be the good Lord above for small favors,” she whispered leaning her head weakly against the wall for support. “He fell asleep.”
So once again she’d miraculously managed to slip through the manacles of holy wedded bliss. For if she had been found lying in the handsome earl’s bed kissing him, letting him fondle her body, she surely would have been trapped in a marvelous scandal.
Aye, even the becoming witch would have reported her to her father. For such scandalous behavior as being found in a bachelor’s bed was not tolerated by the upright religious folk of Urlingford. But as the earl had fallen fast asleep when the witch entered the chamber, there was no reason to question her slightly ruffled state or the flaming color in her cheeks. She nodded in sober solemnity. A blessed angel from above was watching out for her this day.
And with a triumphant smile, she reminded herself that not only had she not been found in the earl’s arms by the witch, she had skillfully rid herself of that blasted coin.
“Aye, and I wish him good fortune with it,” she murmured, and left the room with nary another thought about what she had just said and done.
Chapter 4
It was not, however, the noise of his own snoring that awoke Captain James Dermott Huntington, the new Earl of Drennan. Much like the princess who could not lie asleep on a pea, he could not slumber with a magic coin in his bed. It poked. It prodded. It intruded upon his person until he could bear it no more. He’d slept on the rocky ground of the Guadarrama Mountains more comfortably than in this bed.
“What in blazes!” he muttered, searching for the intruding object. What was it? A protruding nail? A lost cuff link? Any number of small items came to mind as he searched madly under the coverlet till at last—
“Voilà!” He clasped the rough-edged object in his hand. He examined it closely. It glowed a shiny yellow in the afternoon sunlight, its magic qualities hidden cleverly beneath its smooth, golden surface. Pleased, he pocketed the yellow-boy telling himself it might bring him some much needed luck. He then pulled on his morning dressing jacket and as he did, glanced out the bedchamber’s dorm window.
Outside, the lady of the house, Lady Beatrice, stood by a bed of roses, pruning the dead blooms. Her hair was primly tied back, completely hidden by a straw longhorn hat. A pity that, he thought, observing her movements. It would’ve pleased him to see it in the sun flowing like long black waves of smoke down her back. He grimaced. He was waxing poetic over none other than the person who’d been the cause of his present cumbersome injury.
“She’s nothing but a shrew,” he told himself firmly. “Your reasoning must’ve been badly addled by Lord Patrick’s elixir, old boy. ’Tis a sorry day when you have difficulty telling the difference between a beautiful Irish colleen and a cold-hearted wench, such as she.”
A problem, no doubt, brought about by months of all-male companionship endured on that rock in Spain. Not to mention the strong potent drams consumed earlier that morn. Apparently, he had not learned how to resist the temptation of too many tumblers of spirits.
He put a hand to his temple and felt a dull throbbing there. It matched his conf
used state of mind. For which was the dark-haired lady below? Was she the enticing lass with the soft lips who’d been ready for a passionate embrace this morning? Or was she the aloof, frostbitten spinster who’d so rudely shot him out from under his mount? The perplexing questions were worthy of the boggy marshes of Ireland where he’d been unceremoniously thrown.
Befuddled, he reached for the cold compress that’d been thoughtfully left by his washbasin. He placed it on his forehead and laid his head back. His recline was short-lived, however, for the sound of the garden-gate swinging open alerted him to the presence of another entering the garden below.
A tall dandy strolled into the ladyship’s flower garden with the air of one who expected to be always the praised tulip in it. What’s this? A suitor for the lady’s cold hand? The earl rubbed his eyes clear of sleep. And without any thought for the lady’s privacy, the seasoned soldier drew out his field glass from his kit beside the bed and fixed them upon the colorful popinjay.
Immediately noted was the rather large beauty spot the jackanapes sported. It stood out, a small dark mound on the dandy’s pasty white chin.
“My word! ’Tis as big as my little finger!” James exclaimed out loud, focusing his field glass more firmly upon the byword for bad taste.
The object of his interest, one Squire Herbert Lynch by name, bowed over Lady Beatrice’s gloved hand. The dandy wore a superfine morning jacket of striped pink and yellow, with large shoulder pads. His long, spindly legs, the envy of any stork, were gartered in yellow silk clockwork stockings and beribboned in bright pink at his knees. Yellow shoes buckled with shiny brass, the kind one usually wore to a ball, completed the gentleman’s elegant attire. His yellow teeth smiled down at her from his pasty face.
Lady Beatrice still wore a pair of soiled garden gloves. Belatedly realizing his intention to make a gallant gesture over her hand, she removed one. The tall, thin pole of a gentleman buzzed around her like a bee to the lucrative honey pot with his lisping compliments.
“M’—m’dear, you are a breath of fresh spring air this fair morn,” he said, affectedly forming his body into the perfectly required serpentine S. He drew her hand into his own. The wax padding he wore braced underneath his coat cracked audibly from the sudden strain.
“Là, you must show me the newest addition to your garden, Lady O’Brien. ’Tis been bandied about that you’ve added those dear little flowers from the Netherlands. Even my ward has asked if she mightn’t pay a call in order to see them. But knowing that you did not wish to be troubled, I told her firmly no.”
“But you shouldn’t have, Squire Lynch. I’d have been delighted to show them to young Mistress Kathleen. You must tell her when you see her next that she is always the bienvenue at Brightwood. Faith, I do find her youthful company to be most pleasant and refreshing.”
She smiled brightly, all the while grimly remembering his young ward’s sad face. Although an heiress, young Mistress Kathleen Dargheen, seemed beggarly as far as familial affections were concerned. The village gossipmongers had long ago noted the sad fact that Squire Lynch had appointed himself the orphaned child’s guardian only so that he might try and squander away his ward’s fortune before she reached her majority. The dreadful unfeeling man was sure to ruin the lass’s future.
She herself had met the child at a soiree held at the squire’s home. She recalled a pretty child with silky, honey-colored hair and a pair of china blue eyes looking sadly out at the world, silently proclaiming to all and sundry her dismal state of neglect. Even the faded silk bonnet tied around her tiny chin bespoke of her greedy uncle’s evident uncaring negligence of her. Immediately, she’d felt a certain kinship with the heiress. She knew herself what it felt like to be only wanted for one’s money and not for one’s self. She tried, therefore, to show kindness to the child as often as possible.
Lynch interrupted her thoughts, audaciously squeezing her captured hand. She took a shallow breath, resisting the more natural urge to slap him. Indeed, men like the squire were becoming increasingly more and more tiresome. Taking up her valuable time with their romantic nonsense, forcing her to listen endlessly to their ridiculous odes to her dark eyebrows and long raven hair.
The most dreaded of all these admirers, however, had to be the overzealous singers who frequently caused her to lose a good night’s sleep. They, unfortunately, appeared regularly beneath her window, rain or shine, to sing in quivering trebled voices, dreadful ballads of undying love. Such untalented amorous screeching, assured to put her in a foul mood the next day, was probably the worst part about being a wealthy spinster. The last troubadour who’d had the audacity to wake her up in the middle of the night, had inspired her father, Lord Patrick, to deal with him himself. So disgusted was he with the grating noise of the singer, he’d thrown the entire contents of his chamber pot down on the hapless head of the screeching gentleman below.
She shook her head with resignation and carefully removed her hand from the Squire’s clammy grasp.
Faith, if only her great aunt had left her very small fortune to her father, instead of her. But nay, the shrewd old bat had bequeathed all her earthly riches to her strong-headed, but nonetheless beloved, niece.
“Undoubtedly foreseeing what a bumble-broth it would create,” she muttered under her breath in an exasperated sigh.
“What did you say, m’dear?”
“The um—flowers are over here.” And she led him to a bed of tulips.
She had sent for the bulbs directly from Amsterdam herself. They were one of the few delights her wealth had brought. The bright petals of red, yellow, and white bobbed in the wind creating a colorful display for all to enjoy.
“These are my favorites. Such cheerful colors, don’t you think, Squire?” she asked, trying to divert his attention away from herself, pointing to the flowers on their right-hand side.
“Yes, lovely, m’dear, lovely . . .’’ He nodded, barely giving them a glance, his weasel-like eyes focusing upon her right ring finger. For blinking in the sun was a large emerald ring of considerable worth.
In rapture, he breathed in deeply the scent of wet spring roses and tulips around him, wrinkling his long white nose as he abruptly let loose a thunderous, “A-choo-”
“God protect you, Squire,’’ said Beatrice politely, wiping the spray away with a gloved hand. He simpered and gave her what he thought to be one of his most winning smiles, a yellow-toothed grin of favor.
The earl watched in fascination as the thin, choleric dandy led Lady Beatrice around a tall hedge into a more secluded part of the garden. The tall hedge blocked his view from the manor. He could no longer watch the proceedings.
Reaching into his pocket, he thoughtfully rubbed his fingers against the gold surface of the coin, feeling the rounded edges against his fingertips.
He wished the lady would send the spindle-legged macaroni on his way. The sight of the man gave him a headache. Even as these wishes passed through his thoughts, he heard a terrified scream, followed by what sounded like a loud, but very distinctive ka-splash of water. He grinned happily. The sound was very reminiscent of his own recent dip in a certain marsh bog.
Seconds later, a thin figure came scurrying out from behind the tall, obstructing hedge. The white blur in a pink-striped coat ran helter-skelter, yelling at the top of his voice. “Shrew! Witch! Hoyden! Bi—” and other various colorful epithets about the lady.
Looking down at his dripping, dirt-sodden coat and stained satin shoes, the shaking squire moaned aloud in deep despair, “They’re completely and utterly ruined! You’ve destroyed m’beauties!”
He fell to his knees and keened at the expensive loss.
Lady Beatrice appeared next. She walked slowly, dragging the wet hem of her walking gown. Her hair dripped water droplets down her face. Upon espying the kneeling Lynch, she mumbled some angry words and charged towards him ready to tear the jackanapes to pieces.
He caught sight of her and let out a squeak of fear, making a frog’s leap sa
fely away from her. With an agility that astonished those who watched, the squire safely landed on the other side of the stone gate surrounding the garden.
Face flushed with rage, the insulted lady shouted over at him from the other side. “Be assured, sir, if I had my firearm, I’d use it and give the crows a pudding! Serving your skinny, white carcass up as an entree!”
She spat at him and wiped her tainted mouth across the sleeve of her dripping gown, vividly recalling the repugnant shock she’d most rudely received.
She had been innocently standing in front of a small, bronze statue of a shooting cupid, looking down at the flowering water lilies she’d most recently had planted in the reflecting pond, when the damned jack-straw had taken advantage of her immobility and pressed himself upon her. He had grabbed her slender shoulders, so that she was forced to face him, and in so doing placed a slobbery wet-dog kiss upon her mouth.
Outraged, and without any thought to the consequences, she gave the scurvy knave a most satisfactory push into the reflecting pond. Unfortunately, she’d received a good drenching at the same time.
Seeing the evil intent on her face, the squire swung up onto his nag. He failed to make it completely over the saddle. Half of him now sat astride Flossy, a plump chestnut brown mare of advanced age, known to be the most sedentary, gentle mount in the parish. The other half dangled in midair, his skinny, striped-clad backside swaying temptingly back and forth.
Noticing the half-mounted gentleman’s predicament, Beatrice calmly and deliberately opened the garden gate.
“Nice, Flossy. Get-EE-up, girl,” urged the frightened Lynch, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in quivering fear.
She walked near. Spying a riding crop hanging from a nearby post, she snatched it down. Her emerald eyes reflected her inner thoughts as she approached. They snapped with sweet, dark thoughts of revenge.
From his precarious perch, the coward squeezed his eyes shut. She approached the horse and raised her crop.
